Choices
by Meisiluosi
Summary: The two remaining sons of Fëanor finally made it. They got the silmarils. And now what... Maedhros POV.


_Note: The retrieval of Silmarils has always been one of those moments that haunted my mind... So - it is not surprising that my first attempt at Silmarillion fanfic revolves around this theme... Maybe this is more sympathetic to Fëanorians than they deserve, but theirs is my chosen perspective...;-) (In other words - I am *such* a fangirl...)_

_If you dislike 1st person narration, angst, self-pity and such stuff, you'd better hit the "back" button...;-)_

* * *

So again it has come to pass. We spilt the precious blood of our kin. Two guards lie dead and silent on the floor of the tent. Several others fix their empty and yet accusing gazes up to the dawning sky and beyond the boundaries of the world. As many others before them, they stood in our path – and we dispatched them. A dull echo of remorse resonates faintly somewhere deep within my soul at the realization of how easy it was. For me, anyway.

There used to be times, when shedding our kin's blood would be an alien concept to us, something beyond our imagination. But those times seem so distant now... We used to be so innocent, centuries ago. I've forgotten what it felt like. Innocence, once lost, cannot be regained – nor truly remembered.

Yet again, I find myself wondering about when exactly did this occur. Which of those bridges we've crossed was that of no return. When everything we used to be transformed into everything we're now. When we stopped making choices... With a cold indifference I come to the same realization as so many times before - there was never a point of no return and we've always made choices... No matter how much we'd like to believe our choices were made for us, it was always us who have made them... Nelyafinwë Maitimo would be driven mad by the thought... But certainly, Nelyafinwë Maitimo would have never made the choices I've made. He died a long time ago – Maedhros Fëanorion is all that remains. And Maedhros doesn't really care anymore.

All this is rushing through my mind as I look at the small wooden chest. Underneath the richly decorated lid, there lies the only thing that matters now. The sole purpose that I've pursued for the greater part of my life. The notion sickens me slightly – but I barely consider that. The desire and the yearning are stronger than anything. Certainly stronger than me.

I can feel the sudden weight of Maglor's hand upon my shoulder. I would glance at him – to see his face and his eyes, to get an idea of what is going on in his mind right now. But I cannot. The delicately engraved wooden chest draws all my attention. It's hard to believe that finally, after all those years, the moment has come. I would think I'm dreaming, if I didn't sense them so clearly. The chest obscures their light, but their spirit can be felt. The feeling is different from the one I remember... But then, I've changed much and so have my feelings.

"Should I open it?" I hear myself ask and my voice sounds small and strange.

"Please, do," he replies. "I dare not."

Hesitantly, almost with fear, I slowly lift the engraved lid. Maglor's hand violently clutches my shoulder and I almost think I can hear his heart beating. Or is it the pounding of my own heart... For a moment there is nothing but dazzling light. He gasps for breath and I understand why. The same sensation of endless awe echoes through my whole being and, for a moment, leaves me breathless too. It feels almost as when we saw them for the first time. Their beauty hasn't faded, their light hasn't dimmed. They are so unmarred, so beautiful and pure... All those years – and they are untainted. Unlike us.

The light streaming from beneath the lid seems to wash away all my previous thoughts and concerns. I gaze at the two magnificent gemstones... They remind me, with agonizing intensity, of all things I've ever adored about my father. His beauty, his skill and intellect, his passion – the bright flame of his burning spirit. There were times when I remembered his pride and his greed with rage and reproach. All is forgiven. Now I see... Too much of his own essence went into creation of these.

A pang of the sharpest pain seizes my heart for a moment and I realize how much I miss him – how much have I missed him throughout all those years.

Maglor's voice interrupts my thoughts: "So this is it... This is what we lived for, killed for, what our brothers died for..." He sounds almost amused, but when I look at him, I see nothing but immeasurable sadness in his eyes.

"Yes, this is it, little brother," I reply.

"Was it worth it...?" He says in what seems barely a whisper.

The light of the silmarils makes him look strangely ethereal... It illuminates his beauty in a frightening way. I remember where I've seen it before. Caranthir, Celegorm, Curufin, the twins... It's just my twisted imagination, I know – but seeing that serene transparent palor of passing death in my last surviving brother's face sends terrible shivers down my spine. And it brings me back to senses and awareness. I can suddenly hear raised voices and many footsteps.

I reach for one of the silmarils, but something makes me withdraw my hand. Instead, I close the lid, as quickly as my reluctance allows me to.

"Take the box, Maglor... We've been discovered."

He does as I say and we rush out of the tent, with our weapons ready in our hands. I've hoped we would be able to escape without having to directly confront anybody. But we are expected – the whole camp seems to be assembled here – every single man ready and willing to fight us and either seize us and bring us in front of Eönwe or kill us. I imagine they'd derive greater pleasure from the latter.

I look at all the assembled people – and see their faces illuminated by torches and lanterns - reddish flames of anger in the indifferent indigo twilight of the early morning. I read hatred, contempt, disbelief and even some pity in their eyes. They seem startled and offended when I allow myself a brief amused chuckle at the sight.

They all look so shocked and surprised... Shaken to the core, indeed.

Every time we came to claim what was ours, we saw the same hurted and surprised faces. How come? Aren't we the accursed kinslayers? Didn't we prove at the very beginning, that we really *meant* it when we said we wanted those darlings back? Were we never expected?

The same righteous wrath each time we knock at the door. And here we are again, unreasonable, as always... But of course... They are the reasonable ones.

I know my share of guilt. I know it is enormous. But any penitence I may still be capable of is not for the eyes and ears of the sanctimonious bunch assembled here. I am Maedhros Fëanorion. I will not crawl on my belly like vermin and beg for forgiveness or understanding.

A golden-haired elf steps forward, unsheathes his sword and cries accusingly: „Have you no shame?"

I prepare for the attack, ready to fight and die. "Not anymore."

Something in my voice changes his face expression quite unexpectedly... The hatred dissolves from his face and grim determination to prevent me and my brother from escaping is all that remains. He thinks he understood. He thinks he knows...

The armed men advance towards us. "Give it up," the golden-haired elf says, almost pleadingly. "Don't force us to fight you."

"Now, isn't it ironic," I reply a bit sardonically. "We worded a very similar request, several times... We were always refused." I finish with a hint of accusation.

They draw nearer. Well then – at least I'll die fighting. After all, that's all I wish now. One way or the other, I've fulfilled my quest. I've kept the promise I've given to my dying father, ages ago. I've remained true to the Oath, I've lost myself somewhere along the road - and now all this finally comes to an end. I would prefer a grander finale but I guess I don't deserve it.

Maglor gently punches me in my arm and I look in the direction he's pointing to.

"Eönwe," my brother states the rather obvious, never averting his gaze from the approaching figure.

"So the moment of truth is come," I remark and I wonder if bitterness and irony have become an integral part of the sound of my voice. Probably they have.

Eönwe truly is a very dominating, authoritative presence. The crowds make way for him and all stares gravitate towards him as he slowly and solemnly approaches us. I feel impossibly small as he towers above us and measures us with his indecipherable eyes. But nevermind how tiny I feel, I'm still determined to bite any hand, that tries to seize me or what is mine, be it an elven hand or a hand of a demigod. For a moment, the full weight of his gaze lies upon me and my brother. I wonder what exactly it is he sees.

"Let them go," he commands and his voice is like thunder. It washes over me like a tidal wave, almost striking me to the ground. I wish he said more. I wish he cursed and condemned us, but we already are cursed and condemned. We are not even worth killing. We are nothing. And the treasure we carry away with us is not worth killing for.

*Let them go* - never have I heard anything more terrible or more foreboding. Three simple words that contain the charge, the judgement and the verdict, that sum up so effectively and with such finality the ruin and the senselessness of our pasts and the non-existence of our futures.

I know better than to mistake these words for an act of mercy. I sheathe my sword and, defended and broken, I take the first reluctant step forward. They step aside to make way for us, watching us closely, as we walk away. Strange mixture of feelings is reflected in their faces and I never dare to look directly in their eyes. I stare straight forward most of the time, realizing – not without displeasure – that my sight is becoming blurry. I can hear Maglor's soft steps as he's following me. He always has. Maybe *I* should have followed *him* more often.

The atmosphere is so tense it makes me want to run, but the looks of others are so heavy upon me I can barely walk.

It seems like eternity before this ordeal finally comes to an end. I halt for a moment and I look back. Their gazes still follow us. Maglor catches up with me and puts his arm around my shoulders.

"Don't look back," he says, pulling me closer to him in a brotherly, protective gesture.

He's got a point – the ruin and the senselessness of our pasts are not pleasant to behold.

"Do I have a choice...?" I reply, well aware of the non-existence of our futures.


End file.
